


In Which Sherlock (Almost) Learns to Do the Washing

by cableknitbowtiesarecool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cableknitbowtiesarecool/pseuds/cableknitbowtiesarecool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John comes home to find that Sherlock has tried, and failed, to do the laundry, he vows to teach him the proper technique. However, the Consulting Detective is more interested in discerning the cause of John's newfound nervousness around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock (Almost) Learns to Do the Washing

**Author's Note:**

> All Characters owned by the BBC. This is my first published fanfiction, and I, unfortunately, lacked an in-depth Beta. I attempt to Brit-pick all my work, but if there are any discrepancies with that, be sure to inform me.
> 
> Pretty much shameless PWP.

When John Watson put his key in the front door to 221B Baker Street, he was greeted by a horrible clanging. Inclining his head, he realized that it was coming from the top of the stairs. Of course it was. Where else would it be coming from?

Heaving a sigh, John lugged the two bags of shopping up the flight of steps, and shouldered open the door that he knew would be unlocked. It was then that he realized the carpet was squishing beneath his shoes. John placed the shopping bags on the counter in the kitchen, resigned, before calling out, “Sherlock?” This could only be the work of his eccentric flatmate. In the short time that they had been living together, John had grown used to the idea of returning to his flat and finding just about anything. He had become so desensitized that very little tended to surprise him anymore.

When there came no reply, John quickly made the rounds through the apartment, checking Sherlock’s room and the tiny bathroom for the source of the liquid saturating the rug. At this point, he was praying that it was, in fact, water, and not something more… unpleasant.

After a moment, John made his way into the hallway, the clanging starting to emphasize the burgeoning headache he had developed before arriving home. The stairs also squelched beneath him. As he neared the door to the apartment’s shared laundry, John gave a scoff of annoyance. There, seeping under the door, were thousands of bubbles that seemed to multiply at breakneck speed. Quick as a flash, John darted to the door and shoved it open.

The floor of the tiny room was covered in bubbles so numerous that they hid the linoleum from view completely. The clanging was deafening as John sloshed through the water towards the machine, the lid of which was being combatted by a frustrated Sherlock Holmes. It was clear that the machine was the source of the mess, as it continued to belch great streams of soap. “Sherlock,” John shouted over the din.

The consulting detective looked up. “Good afternoon, John. Why not take a snapshot? Much more permanent.” The frustration on Sherlock’s face was reflected in his clipped tone.

John bristled. “Did you not consider that I might be enjoying your struggles,” he countered, his arms crossing over his chest as he smirked at his flatmate.

Sherlock fixed him with a venomous look that set John into motion. Sherlock’s sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and the top three buttons of his shirt flapped open. Had John not been tramping through a layer of laundry soap, he might have swallowed hard. It was _that_ shirt. The purple silk hugged Sherlock’s hard lines, and John’s eyes almost always strayed to the exposed triangle of perfect pale flesh at his flatmate’s throat when he wore it. He ignored the flare in his belly now as he gently shouldered Sherlock aside with a grunt. John stabbed the power button on the machine, which gave a grinding whine before shuddering to a stop.

“Sherlock,” John snapped, back still to the detective as he whipped the lid of the machine open. “What the bloody hell were you trying to do?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh come now, John,” he said. “Surely even your mediocre mind can deduce that I was trying to do the wash.”

John gritted his teeth. “Yes, thank you. The better question is what the hell did you do to the machine?”

“I merely attempted to exploit its function,” Sherlock replied simply.

“Clearly, you didn’t succeed,” John snapped, pushing an arm into the machine to fish for the garments that Sherlock had stowed there.

Sherlock blinked. Tersely, he responded, “Apparently not.”

It was then that John withdrew the black slacks and light blue shirt. He gave a groan. “Sherlock, you left your belt in the loops. And you can’t mix colors.”

“John, menial tasks such as laundry are better suited to those with menial trains of thought. Why should I have a perfect understanding of something that is, to me, mostly irrelevant?”

John whirled, a gruff reply on the tip of his tongue, when his gaze focused on his friend. Sherlock’s dark curls were covered in suds, and several intact bubbles clung gently to his left cheek. The consulting detective looked comically like a child who had just taken a bubble bath and failed to rinse properly before dressing. Such a thought amused Watson and he gave a nervous giggle.

Sherlock looked puzzled. “What are you laughing at, John,” he demanded.

“You’ve got bubbles all over you, Sherlock,” John replied as he continued to snicker.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of John’s dark blue eyes, Sherlock’s mouth quirked as he joined his friend in laughter at the comedy of his appearance. The two men continued to giggle for several seconds, before the laughter died and John asked, “What on earth did you do at Bart’s when you needed your clothes washed? They don’t have a laundry service.”

“My experience at university was atypical at best, John. I was not expected to complete such mundane tasks. I merely left the job to my… peers in exchange for not speaking to them.”

Though the detective made the confession with little emotion in his voice, John’s heartstrings still tightened. It was true that Sherlock was not the simplest to handle; the man could try the patience of a saint. This led John to wonder if he had had any friends before they had met. Based on an average person’s reaction to him, the doctor assumed not. He gave a cough as Sherlock eyed him.

“It suited me fine,” Sherlock said, noticing his friend’s troubled gaze. “I had little reason to interact with others anyway. They were all such bloody idiots; they were more concerned with getting drunk and sleeping with each other than they were with expanding their meager intelligence.”

John didn’t know how Sherlock always seemed to know _exactly_ what he was thinking, but he didn’t question it. Instead he ventured, “If you’ve never done a load of wash before, what possessed you to try it today? Why not wait for me, or ask Mrs. Hudson for help?”

“Mrs. Hudson went out. I assume to the book club meetings she has every Wednesday. Though, I don’t know why she bothered. Based on the way she gingerly held the novel as she left, she clearly didn’t read it. You were at the surgery, and I had a rather unpleasant stain down my front--”

“That’s another thing,” John cut in. Sherlock gave the shorter man a look for interrupting, but John ignored the narrowing of the detective’s ice blue eyes and barreled on. “You can’t do a load with just two articles of clothing.”

“I only had two dirty pieces, John,” Sherlock answered, matter of fact.

John knew that arguing with the detective was futile. He sighed again. “How much soap did you use,” he asked, changing the topic slightly.

“A bit,” Sherlock answered. John’s interrogation was beginning to bore him.

“A _bit_ ,” John echoed. “Look at the floor!”

“All right, a lot,” Sherlock acceded with irritation. “Honestly, John, there’s no reason to be asking these questions. You can already figure out what happened. Shouldn’t you focus on fixing the problem?”

John chuckled at his friend’s exasperation, before moving past him. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” Sherlock nodded, pleased to be past the airing of his mistake. John had to push rather close to the detective to get past him in the tiny room, which resulted in a brief contact of chests. John felt that all too familiar flare of heat in his cheeks, and his heart quickened. He all but dashed away from Sherlock down the stairs.

Sherlock stared after John, his mind working. He had definitely noticed a change in the doctor’s respiration associated with nervousness. However, he had yet to identify its source. He would need more data for that.

On his way down the stairs, John ran into their tiny landlady. Mrs. Hudson was harried as she greeted him. “John. What’s he done now? The carpet’s sopping.”

John grinned at her, “He tried to do a load of wash.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Hudson replied. Her lined face reflected trepidation. “Is the machine…” She trailed off, waiting.

“Everything’s fine,” John answered. “But… er… there’s a bit of a mess. Don’t worry. Sherlock and I’ll have it cleaned up, but, for the time being, I wouldn’t go up there.” He chuckled at her. “Besides, climbing all these stairs isn’t good for your poor hip. Why not take one of those supplements?”

She returned his grin, before giving him a playful swat on the arm. She turned and headed back down the stairs, trusting John to keep his flatmate under control as he always had done, or at least tried to do. Mrs. Hudson had no doubt that John Watson was the only man that could possibly keep up with Sherlock Holmes, and she couldn’t help the knowing smile that slid onto her face every time the two men looked at each other.

John made it down the stairs and back into the his flat to retrieve the well loved mop and several rags, before trekking back up with the load in his arms. Sherlock was peering at his shirt (the one which he had attempted to wash) intently.

“What are you smirking about,”John asked, grimacing as water soaked the legs of his trousers. The bubbles had begun to burst, and all that was left was an absurd amount of frigid, soapy water on the floor.

“I succeeded in removing the stain,” Sherlock replied, brandishing the garment with a look of triumph.

“Congratulations,” John teased, his voice dripping with gentle sarcasm. He tossed the rags to the detective, who watched as they fell to the ground. John sighed in exasperation. “Pick those up, Sherlock,” he commanded. “I’m not going to clean your entire mess on my own. Wipe the water off the machines, and throw the clothes, _minus the belt_ , in the dryer. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Sherlock huffed, doing as he had been directed. Satisfied that his flatmate would at least make an effort, John began to mop up the water on the floor. He took care not to bump into Sherlock, whose muscular forearms were still exposed. _Cut it out, Watson_ , John thought to himself. He did not understand his body’s reactions to Sherlock; it was like his head was too heavy, and his heart refused to beat properly. Probably because the detective confused him--unnerved him in a way that he failed to comprehend. Still, that didn’t explain John’s curiosity as he wondered how those arms would feel around his waist. Shaking his head to clear it, John began to attack the water on the floor in an attempt to clear those last thoughts from his mind.  
Sherlock caught a glimpse of his friend and was puzzled. There was that flushing again. Was he really so daft that he could not figure out what was ailing the good doctor? He wondered if John would make it simple and tell him if he asked. “John?”

John started, jumping at the sound. Unfortunately, the sudden jerking compromised the traction on his trainers and he felt his feet go out from under him.

Sherlock reacted with cat-like reflexes and lunged forward to wrap his long arms around the doctor’s chest as he fell. John’s head pillowed on Sherlock’s shoulder, and his eyes snapped up to meet the detective’s. “All right,” Sherlock asked him, blue eyes twinkling in amusement.

John became acutely aware of the fact that, should he turn his head a fraction to the left, he could press a kiss to Sherlock’s pulse point. His mouth went dry and he licked his lips as he imagined the sounds he would draw from Sherlock if he sucked the alabaster skin into his mouth. The thought terrified John, who all but wrenched himself from Sherlock’s hold. He coughed several times, before saying, “I’m fine,” with a little too much force.

Sherlock studied John as the shorter man finished his task at light speed. Judging by the elevated heart rate, and John’s trembling left hand, the consulting detective could tell that the doctor was, once again, flustered. He did not think it had to do with the normal human reaction to almost falling; Sherlock was almost positive that he could tell the difference. No, it was something else. Did it have to do with Sherlock himself? He wondered if, perhaps, he had somehow made John nervous. If so, then why? They had been living and solving cases together for almost three months now, and John had never had these reactions before. What could have possibly changed? Was John angry with him about the wash? Sherlock did not think so. He realized with irritation that he would need to monitor John to gather enough data. Because his friend was like an open book when it came to his feelings, Sherlock figured that it should not take too long to ascertain the problem. Then, he could eradicate it before it proved too distracting.

“Right,” John said, without looking at him. “That’s done. Did you want some tea?”

Sherlock stared at him a moment too long before answering, “Two sugars.”

“I know,” John replied before heading out of the room. Sherlock followed him into the flat, and flopped onto the couch while he waited for the tea. He was still puzzled, but he was confident that he could solve this simple mystery.

***

Around three afternoons later, Sherlock was returning from a crime scene, the look on his face particularly smug. The case had taken him mere moments to solve, much to the irritation of Anderson and Sergeant Donovan, who had, of course, been rooting for him to fail. The case had been a welcome distraction from observing John, whose behavior had continued to grow more erratic, but had not yet graduated from terribly dull. Sherlock was positive of a few things now: John got nervous when the detective stood too close, making Sherlock ever aware of personal space; John got more flustered when Sherlock neglected a suit jacket; and finally, John did not want Sherlock to notice these things. Though how he had expected to hide them was beyond the detective. Surely three months living with him had taught John that Sherlock missed very little.

Sherlock had yet to connect the three clauses of which he was certain, but he had every intention of doing so when he reached his flat, if only for something to do. John shouldn’t be home, for Sherlock thought he recalled his flatmate saying something about lunch with Sarah. Sherlock grimaced. What John saw in that boring woman who, Sherlock might add, looked at him with judgmental silence when she was at Baker Street, was beyond him. He was not sure why he cared, or even if he did care at all. As it was, John’s involvement with her gave Sherlock time alone at the flat, which was sometimes beneficial.

The detective was surprised when he walked into the flat to find the doctor sitting in his armchair. “John,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Sarah had to cancel,” John replied, turning off the telly and putting the remote aside.

“Right,” Sherlock answered, removing his coat and scarf and hanging them on the hook.

“So I thought this afternoon would be as good a time as any for me to teach you something.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Teach me something,” he replied, intrigued. Could John be prepared to address the problem that Sherlock had been noticing?

To Sherlock’s dismay, John got up from his chair and hefted a basket. “You want to teach me to do the wash,” the detective realized, not attempting to mask the disbelief in his tone.

“Exactly, Sherlock,” John replied, quite serious. “You’re a grown man, and you should know how to do this sort of thing.”

“John,” Sherlock countered. “It’s hardly necessary for me to learn such things. I’ve told you about how my brain functions--”

“Yes, yes, Sherlock. A hard drive, I know. But you should have room for this kind of thing. You already can’t make tea. I know that you’re like a mastermind, but I’m sure even masterminds have to do some measure of housework. I’ll bet people just as smart as you are have a chore or two on occasion.”

Sherlock just stared. “John,” he said, after a moment. “No one is as smart as I am.”

John scoffed. He might have seen that coming. “As it is, Sherlock. I could use a little help around the flat. I already make tea, do the washing, and make breakfast in the morning, on top of helping you with cases and doing the washing. When you’re bored, you could always help me out with this.”

Sherlock decided that learning to do the wash would at least give him time to watch John, and maybe get to the bottom of what was bothering him. With a melodramatic sigh, he lifted the remaining, smaller basket. It held the products necessary for the task: fabric softener, detergent, and dryer sheets, as well as several other things with which Sherlock did not care to concern himself.

He followed John up the stairs and into the wash room which had, thankfully, suffered no long term damage from Sherlock’s escapades. John set down the basket he carried beside the washing machine, and told Sherlock to put his on top of it.

“All right,” John said, looking at Sherlock, or, more accurately, just over Sherlock’s left shoulder. That was another thing that the detective had noticed; his flatmate had not been meeting his gaze as much as he used to. Interesting. “First things first. Before you do anything with the actual machine, you separate the darks from the whites. If you don’t, and you wash a red jumper with a pair of white pants or khaki trousers, the trousers and pants’ll turn pink.”

Sherlock nodded, pretending to listen. If John truly was going to require him to learn this, he would do so on Google at his convenience. Now was the time for watching John, whose hands shook as he reached into the basket and began to separate the clothes into two piles. “Another thing you should remember is that certain fabrics need to be washed separately from the others, because they’re delicate. My cashmere jumpers, for example. You’ll ruin them if you put them in a normal wash load. That goes for your silk shirts, too.” John lifted a white shirt between his fingers, and Sherlock watched him swallow and pass the tip of his tongue over his lips. Very interesting. “Are you listening to me, Sherlock,” John asked him.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied, appeasing his flatmate when, in reality, he could not care less about what fabrics should be washed how.

“Okay. Now come here,” John commanded with a bit more volume than was necessary.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and stepped a little closer. Over John’s shoulder, he could see another one of his shirts. It was light green, and bore a nasty brown stain on the front. “That’s from the french maid case we had last week,” he said as he watched his friend lay the garment out on the machine.

“Right,” John said. “You got blood on it when you leaned over the body. Remember the looks people gave us when you insisted on walking home?”

“I needed to think, and the taxi would have distracted me,” Sherlock answered.  
“Well, I’m going to teach you how to get blood out of silk. I have to do it all the time with you around.”

Sherlock sighed. “If you must.”

“I must,” John answered. The doctor could feel the warmth from Sherlock on his back, and sweat was forming on his brow. The night that he had found Sherlock in the wash room, John had made a realization when Sherlock had agreed to watch trashy television with him: he was attracted to the consulting detective. It had freaked John out to say the least, but there really had been no denying it when John had found himself thanking all that was holy that he had thrown a blanket over himself before starting the telly; When Sherlock had become frustrated with whatever it was they were watching, he had lunged forward on his haunches to shout at the screen. In that movement, Sherlock’s arm had brushed the skin of John’s neck and shoulder, making him shudder and, to his horror, grow very excited. After several moments of waiting for Sherlock to get distracted, John had claimed to be tired before shooting out of the room.

In his bed, he had run through lists of reasons, even trying to convince himself that it was because his neck was sensitive or because Sarah had not wanted to be intimate for several weeks and any contact was exciting. Today, after sitting in his chair, trying desperately to read his paper, he had realized that he was acutely noticing Sherlock’s absence. He missed him more than a normal mate would. Of course, this was completely new territory for John, and he was not ready to deal with it just yet. He hoped he would get there. Maybe after a talk with Harry.

Right now, with Sherlock so close, he found himself taking deep steadying breaths. This only succeeded in filling his nose with the scent of Sherlock’s soap and skin. “So,” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling, and praying that Sherlock had not noticed the sudden leap in pitch.

Of course the detective had noticed. He noticed _everything_. He said nothing, but John could feel the piercing blue eyes on him. Breathing grew harder as he lifted a bottle of spray. “Put this all over the stain,” he managed. “I usually rub it in with this brush.” He lifted a scrub brush, and handed it to Sherlock. “Try,” he said, his voice faint.

Sherlock nodded and took the brush from his friend, and began to rub in the white foam that had formed over the stain.

“Not like that,” John said, over his shoulder. He had stepped away from Sherlock to catch his breath. “Little circles are better.”

Sherlock sighed and changed his grip on the brush to accommodate for John’s instructions.

“No,” John barked. “You’re not going to hurt it if you rub harder. Here.” Without thinking, John placed his fingers over Sherlock’s and began to guide his wrist. As he realized what he had done, John gave a horrifying squeak and leapt back from his flatmate.

“What is it,” Sherlock demanded, whirling to check on John, whom he thought had suffered some kind of injury or fright. When he focused his gaze on the doctor, the shorter man was babbling something and his eyes were trained strictly on the floor.

“This is silly. I can just do the wash. Sorry.” John had to get out of there. He could feel his blood pumping, and the way his body had been pressed against Sherlock’s was not going to help him.

Sherlock’s eyes danced rapidly over his flatmate. Flushed, slight perspiration on brow, trembling hand, voice pitched higher, and the licking of his lips. The realization struck Sherlock so hard that he felt as though he’d been hit by a train. John was attracted to him. He struggled to comprehend it as John snatched up the basket, leaving the shirt on the machine. Sherlock trailed after his flatmate.

Back in the flat, John was throwing the basket on the ground and preparing to move past Sherlock. He needed to get out of Baker Street. Sherlock stood in the doorway as he watched John run about the flat like a chicken with its head off. Finally, he strode up behind his flatmate.

“John,” he said.

John stopped his frenzied movement and turned to look at him.

“Where are you going,” Sherlock asked, stepping a bit closer. John’s breath caught as he did, confirming Sherlock’s suspicion.

“I… er… I just remembered that I had this thing that I--”

“You’re lying, John.”

John stiffened before attempting an air of indignation. “No I’m not, Sherlock. I really do have to go out.”

“Your pupils dilate and your nostrils flare when you lie, John,” Sherlock pointed out. He stepped a bit closer. The detective wanted to see just how deeply this infatuation went. Sherlock had housed some secret emotions when it came to John for quite some time. However, he never would have acted upon them--not without being a hundred percent sure how they would be received,and not without knowing how it might affect his work. Now, he found that with John’s eyes darting anywhere but his face, Sherlock did not care about his work in the least. He wanted to see what John would do in this situation. It was like a most exhilarating new experiment.

“I… er…” John floundered. His palms were sweaty as his hands went out to rest on the desk that he had backed into in an attempt to get away from Sherlock, who, whether he realized it or not, was torturing him with his vicinity.

“You’re hiding something, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock added, his voice dangerously low.

 _Dammit. How does he always know?_ “W-what?”

“I’ve been watching your behavior, John.” Sherlock explained. The consulting detective had had a problem with personal space, John had noticed, since he had met him. Now, Sherlock leaned forward to cage his flatmate against the desk, a hand resting on the surface on either side of him. John struggled to steady his breath, and raised his eyes in what he prayed would be an expression of challenge.

“If you’re so smart,” John snapped, his mind racing as he tried to figure out a way to bluff his way through this. “Then what am I hiding?”

Sherlock looked at him, his face mere inches away. John squirmed under the intensity of his gaze, and Sherlock felt a hidden jolt of adrenaline at the doctor’s discomfort. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Setting his teeth, John shook his head. This was not a battle he would willingly allow himself to lose. If Sherlock knew something, he would tell him himself, not get the satisfaction of extracting it from him.

Sighing, his breath warming John’s face, Sherlock stood up straight. “Well, John,” he began, circling his flatmate, who had stepped away from the desk. “You aren’t exactly difficult to read. I’ve been noticing a few things about the way you’ve been acting around me. Strange, really, some of your new tendencies. For example, when I do this,” he once again invaded John’s space, his chest almost touching John’s as he inclined his head even further to keep the doctor’s gaze. John could not withhold the gasp that bubbled from his lips as his face came level with Sherlock’s tantalizing white neck. “You get flustered. And it doesn’t go away until,” he danced back a few steps, “I do.”

“Sherlock,” John snapped loudly. “Where the bloody hell are you going with this?” He knew. John knew he knew. Now, if he could just gage the detective’s reaction, he could work with what was going on.

“Don’t play stupid, John,” Sherlock countered. “It’s not becoming.” He closed the space a third time. “You’re attracted to me.”

There it was. _Now or never_ , John thought. Never. “Sherlock, you’re insane. I told you the first day I met you: I’m not gay.” He used all of his willpower to push past his flatmate and head for the kitchen, the bathroom, anywhere else.

“Maybe not,” Sherlock called after him. “But that’s not what I said, is it?”  
John froze. Sherlock had him. And he knew it. Taken over by some sort of strange desire, the detective moved to stand just behind his friend before lowering his voice to John’s ear. “You want me, John.”

John gave a moan as the whisper filled his ear with Sherlock’s hot breath. It was the only affirmation Sherlock needed, and he whirled John with obscene speed, shoving him roughly against the wall. John barely had time to react before Sherlock’s mouth descended upon his. He made another sound deep in his throat, and scrabbled at the detective’s shoulders.

Sherlock had experimented with sex and sexuality plenty in his youth, but never had he felt inclined to do so based on any sort of desire. It had all been for the sake of science, and with people that were deemed stereotypically attractive. Now, as he plundered John’s mouth with his, he felt a flare in his stomach. John was apparently not the only one with a sexual attraction to his flatmate. Sherlock’s hands fell to the other man’s waist, jerking him close.

John’s unsure fingers found themselves tangling in Sherlock’s hair, and as Sherlock forced his lips open, John tugged at it, drawing a growl from the consulting detective. The pressure of Sherlock’s hands on John’s back bent him backwards as a result of Sherlock’s eagerness. John did not know where his friend had learned to kiss like this, but he was not about to complain. It was, without a doubt, the most intense kiss he had ever had. Finally, his lungs protesting at the lack of new oxygen, John pulled back. Sherlock used this moment to press his lips to John’s neck, making him groan again. The sounds shot through Sherlock, who answered with an appreciative nuzzle to John’s shoulder.

Brain finally catching up, John sensed how wrong this felt. After all, had it not been him imagining taking Sherlock in this manner just the other day? That in mind, John seized Sherlock’s lapels and wrenched him back. Sherlock looked at him in confusion. “John,” he questioned softly, fearing that he had gone too far.

In response, John whirled them, so that Sherlock occupied his former position. Eyes widening in understanding, Sherlock watched as John took the dominant role. The doctor conquered the consulting detective’s lips without preamble.It his turn to learn the inside of that beautiful mouth.

When he was satisfied that he knew Sherlock’s teeth, tongue and mouth intimately, John echoed his flatmate’s earlier movements, giving into that base desire he had had in the wash room those days ago. He violently took the soft white skin of Sherlock’s long neck between his teeth just above his pulse. Sherlock snarled, hands flattening on John back. “My God,” he murmured as John suckled the skin there, sure to leave behind a brilliant purple mark on that alabaster flesh. God, if John were a man to write odes or sonnets, he might have easily written hundreds on the perfection that was Sherlock’s neck. If he were a singer, every song would be dedicated to the bony clavicle. It was only when he felt that both men had had enough of this teasing that John pushed his hands under Sherlock’s suit jacket and tried to remove. Sherlock pushed away from the wall to make the job easier and let the garment fall down his arms to the floor.

Blue eyes locked on silver as John’s fingers worked the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt open. As an expanse of that white flesh came into view, John caught his breath. His eyes stayed with Sherlock’s as he passed his palms over the flawless skin.

Sherlock let his head fall back as he enjoyed the feeling of such an intimate touch. The heat of John’s hands left trails on his skin and he was surprised as perspiration formed on his brow. His hands found the hem of John’s cable knit cream jumper, and he lifted his head to find John’s eyes. Something in him wanted affirmation before he began to undress his flatmate. John answered by removing his hands from Sherlock’s chest to raise them over his head. Sherlock pulled the jumper up almost violently, mussing John’s sandy blond hair. Long white fingers danced over the doctor’s back, feeling the scars there and cataloguing them. Neither man could get enough of the other as hands petted and poked. Sherlock felt the round puckered scar at the back of John’s left shoulder where the bullet that had shot him had no doubt passed through. His gaze fell to the spot on the front of the other man’s chest. An angry pink scar lay forever in the tanned skin.

John watched in trepidation and then relief as Sherlock pressed warm lips to the old wound. Wordlessly, John grabbed the detective’s hand and led him to the beaten leather couch. Both kicked off their shoes as John moved to straddle Sherlock’s waist. Much to the taller man’s surprise, he craved from John both a mental and physical connection. This became apparent when John ground down upon his hips in his haste to kiss every inch of Sherlock’s exposed skin. He could not keep back a lusty moan, and John lifted his head, not realizing what he had done. It only took a second of staring at Sherlock’s flushed face to understand, and then John returned to kissing him with a renewed intensity. As he plundered the full lips, John’s hands found the waistband of his flatmate’s trousers. He popped open the button keeping him out, and Sherlock gasped as John’s hand brushed over that intimate spot on his body through his cotton pants.

“John,” he muttered, barely coherent as John took him in hand and squeezed him through that blasted fabric. Lifting his hips, he bucked into John pointedly.

John was having difficulty containing his eagerness as he assisted in sliding both Sherlock’s trousers and pants down his thin hips, bringing him into view. God he was beautiful, all white and warm. John couldn’t help himself from taking the half hard flesh in his hand. Sherlock moaned again, his head falling back and his right arm finding John’s wrist as the doctor pumped his fist. This was unlike anything he had ever experienced, and a tightening coil in his belly was drawing him close. So close. John twisted his grip, making Sherlock shout his name. He decided he liked his name in that panicked timbre, all strangled and svelte at the same time.

“John,” Sherlock shouted again, bucking helplessly into John’s hand. “I feel as though…” he tried to force out. “I think that… I--” It was so rare that Sherlock could not speak, but John’s hand was making it next to impossible. “J-John,” he gave as a last feeble attempt.

John silenced him with an openmouthed kiss, wet and warm, as he picked up speed one more time. It was all that it took, and Sherlock screamed John’s name as he exploded, blinding white light behind his eyes as he screwed them shut.

John watched the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and swallowed hard, his vice grip falling away as he stooped to grab Sherlock’s discarded pants, which he used to clean up the mess.

When John had finished, Sherlock was staring at him in awe, his icy eyes trained on his face as air still came in bursts. John met his gaze levelly, acutely aware of the painful tightness fighting the constriction of his own trousers. He needed to alleviate that pressure, but he would never ask Sherlock to do so for him.

John pushed himself off of Sherlock to sit beside him. Hoping that it would not make Sherlock uncomfortable, John undid his own button, putting a hand under the elastic of his pants.

Sherlock watched in fascination as John gasped. He had not moved to even imply that Sherlock should return the favor just bestowed upon him. That was John’s nature, he supposed, never expecting anything, but taking what was allowed to him with quiet acceptance. When he had his wits about him, Sherlock seized John’s wrist, which was struggling to work his fevered flesh within the confines of his boxers. Without a word, the detective removed the doctor’s hand and eased the garment over John’s legs. It was John’s turn to watch his flatmate.

Sherlock placed two hands on John’s chest and pushed, sending the shorter man to his back. John did not resist, but he was surprised when Sherlock’s lowering hand passed his arousal over completely. He did not have long to wonder what the detective was doing, as he felt Sherlock fingers find another part of him, a part that had never been touched during sex. John met his eyes, and Sherlock cocked his head in question. Rather than answering, John let his head fall back. This was new territory for John. He had never done such a thing, but something in his heart told him that he could trust Sherlock.

Sherlock drew his hand away to place his fingers between his lips, wetting them, before he returned them to John’s body, pushing one inside slowly, gently.

John gasped at the foreign feeling. However, it was not unpleasant just yet. Sherlock leaned forward to catch John’s mouth as he moved his finger deeper, in and out. Very gently, Sherlock eased another finger in to join the first. The very tip of the long fingers just brushed something inside of John when the detective crooked them, and John moaned around Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock could feel himself already growing excited again, and was surprised by such a short period of refraction.  
John gasped as Sherlock continued to ravish his mouth. After a few moments, he was forced to release Sherlock’s lips, which were growing red and chapped from his violent kissing of the doctor. He took in air swiftly as Sherlock trailed kisses down his flatmate’s neck and shoulder. He latched onto John’s pulse point, sucking there as the ex soldier had done to him earlier. He intended to leave a mirroring mark on his blogger’s neck. Sherlock had never thought that he would be so territorial of a sexual conquest, but the idea of someone else inside of John greatly disturbed the detective. This purplish bruise would mark John as something only accessible to Sherlock. For a fleeting moment, Sherlock thought triumphantly of Sarah.

A third finger slipped in to join the others, drawing louder gasps from John, whose hand seized Sherlock around the back of his neck. He did not pull him closer, fearing that if he kissed him again he would pass out from lack of oxygen. The stretching was a bit uncomfortable, but nothing an ex soldier such as John could not handle. He struggled to regulate his breathing as Sherlock once again bent his fingers to find that spot. The way that John could not bite back a keen made him wonder how Sherlock had gotten so skilled at pleasuring someone other than himself. He saw stars as the detective did it again and felt his arousal twitch in pleasure.

Knowing that the fourth finger was always the hardest for someone who had never done this before, Sherlock used his other hand to pleasure John from the front, distracting him from the pressure pain that came with the adding of that last finger. John groaned and cursed. Like Sherlock had expected, the combination of pain and pleasure did the trick, and John did not pull back from the intrusion. In fact, the sensations caused the smaller man to buck hard against Sherlock.

It did not take long after that to make John ready to receive Sherlock, and, once again, the detective met the doctor’s eyes in a quest for permission. In response, John passed his tongue over his palm a few times, before reaching down to pass the wet hand over Sherlock, who hissed in surprise. It was an invitation, though Sherlock could read the expression in John’s eyes that begged him to be gentle.

Both men groaned as Sherlock pushed in, slow and cautious. A few moments later found John writhing beneath him as Sherlock moved cautiously, the feeling of John surrounding him almost causing his own undoing. John wantonly pushed back against Sherlock, his eyes locked on the ice blue gaze bearing down on him. From his mouth, John felt the words, “Harder, Sherlock,” fall in a stream of breath.

Without warning, the detective pulled his flatmate up against his chest so that the two of them were sitting as Sherlock began to move faster, his arousal hitting that spot in John repeatedly, making the doctor cry out and curse as Sherlock kissed his neck and bit at his shoulder. Several moments later, with the help of both Sherlock’s hand and arousal, John went to pieces around the detective, a string of profanity issuing from his mouth. Sherlock followed shortly after. He did not cry out as John had, but he did whimper and moan in a building rhythm until he could make no sound at all. As he finished he bit down on John’s shoulder, drawing a final whine from the doctor.

Finally, the two men came to a stop, and Sherlock pulled out of John’s body, careful not to do it too quickly so as not to hurt his friend. Lover? Were they lovers? For now, Sherlock shook his head. He would think about it later, for he had no idea what kind of relationship constituted the label. He knew that he felt more for John than he had ever felt for anyone, and that this coupling had ceased to be an experiment shortly after it had begun. He was puzzled to say the least, as the figure still clinging to Sherlock fell back to rest on the couch beside him.

John struggled to form words. “That…” he started. “That... was amazing.” Briefly, Sherlock was reminded of the first time that John had ever seen Sherlock deduce and had sad the same words in the cab back to Baker Street. He blinked, uncertain of an appropriate response. Thankfully, John didn’t seem to expect one.

“So… er… what does this mean,” John ventured, uncertain. He was voicing Sherlock’s own mental musing about what the connotations of what they had done had meant for them. John was more sure than Sherlock, however. He knew that he wanted this to be exclusive, and that it stretched so far beyond the physical act that they had just performed. John had no intention of ever being away from Sherlock, his high functioning sociopath, again. If anyone were to harm Sherlock Holmes, or even upset him, John Watson would be there to deliver it back to them tenfold.

Sherlock blinked as John took his hand, the smaller limb entwining with Sherlock’s long violinist’s fingers. The detective was still confused, and thus replied, “It means, my dear John, that I should try to do the wash more often.”


End file.
